


Cat and Mouse

by seasonsgredence



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, police officer percival graves, police/criminal, rape mention, two men eating hot wings five feet apart cause they're not gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-02 02:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasonsgredence/pseuds/seasonsgredence
Summary: While in pursuit of a wily young criminal, Officer Percival "Charles" Graves finds himself a bit over his head.---This is a standalone AU fic of my Fantastic Beasts fic Caution.You do not need to be up-to-date on Caution to understand it, but non-readers may find it confusing. It does not contain spoilers for Caution, but I do recommend you read it beforehand if you have no knowledge of the AU or characters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a standalone AU fic of my Fantastic Beasts fic Caution. 
> 
> You do not need to be up-to-date on Caution to understand it, but non-readers may find it confusing. It does not contain spoilers for Caution, but I do recommend you read it beforehand if you have no knowledge of the AU or characters.
> 
> Read it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9273554/chapters/21016472

_Why stalk him when you can have me instead? xoxo, A.T._

  
This is the fifth letter Charles received, written in chicken scratch on a neon green index card and placed on his windshield wiper. 

He sighed, eyes still adjusting to the garish color. It figures Alec Turner's signature color would be as hard to miss as his criminal activity. As obnoxious and unlovable as his very existence. At least the brat was a loyal boyfriend.

The letters started mere days after Charles arrested Credence James. The original charge was trespassing, but the fact he was holding one of his boyfriend's stashes didn't help matters.

On a whim, Charles flipped the card over. The whim paid off.

_The Radisson. Conference Room C. 10 PM. ❤_

  
\---

You didn't know what you were expecting, but this wasn't it. Your least favorite drug dealer was at a shitty hotel, at an event called "Club Teen." Judging from the poster, it's some sort of rave for high schoolers. Why anyone would go to a rave devoid of alcohol is beyond you. 

You're surprised to learn such a thing exists, post-Facebook. You figured teenagers spend most of their time indoors these days, staring at screens and talking to dirty old men. Speaking of dirty old men, you're sure to flash your badge at the management. 

Something you aren't surprised to learn is that Turner would sink low enough to sell to kids. You've seen a lot of drug dealers in your day, and many of them prided themselves on having a no kid policy. Of course, Alec Turner was a special brand of douchebaggery. Not an especially evil guy, but he sure was ballsy. For fuck's sake, what kind of criminal tips the police off to their location?

And that's when you begin to wonder. 

_Are you the dumbest piece of shit cop in the entire goddamn universe?_

_Is this a fucking trap?_

You are suddenly hyper-aware of the fact every element is the place is working against you. A crowd full of youths eating sliders. You stick out like a sore thumb. 

Why the fuck did he lead you here? What did he want? 

Most importantly... where was he?

Alec, though older than his boy toy, could easily fit in with this crowd. You, on the other hand, are a moron. A moron walking around an idiotic crowd with one hand in your ear, the other holding a plate with a slider that resembled a melted hockey puck.

Where the fuck was that asshole?

The music switches over to another horrendous song. That's when you see him. The motherfucker was on the stage. That living, breathing bag of hoodies was the fucking DJ.  
A scantily-dressed young woman came onto the stage. She was on the poster for the event. Some model on social media. The music stopped and spoke into the microphone. "Alright, we're winding down for the night, so it's time to take it down a notch. If you've been eyeing someone, it's now or never. This is our last slow jam." 

The colorful lights fade to dark, a spotlight on the makeshift dance floor. You eat a few sliders as you wait for this shitty rave-prom thing to end.

When the song ends, the lights are plain old white. You realize your hands are covered in ketchup. After wiping them, you realize something else- Turner is gone.  
Songs play from a stereo now. The DJ booth is still on the stage, but Alec abandoned it. 

_That fucking prick._

He brought you here for nothing.

 _Just wait,_ you think. Maybe he's coming back. 

Like an idiot, you wait. Troves of teens leave. You wait until it's just you, an empty DJ booth, and fake-breasted girl signing a few autographs.

 _Motherfucker._

You storm out, to no avail. You resort to searching a cluster of teenagers waiting for the elevator but see no sign of him.

"Looking for someone?"

The voice comes from behind you. When you whip around, he's against the wall, cool as a cucumber. He'd been there the entire time. You're sure of it. He watched you look for him. You're caught red-handed... not literally this time. The boy stares at you, arms crossed, next to a coffee table with a glossy black phone and ornamental flowers in a shitty vase.

Alec looks at you with a smug smile. His smile pierces through you. He lights up a cigarette- an act not allowed on this floor of the hotel, you're sure- and takes a drag. The boy looks at you, waiting for you to say something, but you say nothing.

"Glad you got the invite," he said, blowing smoke into the bouquet of flowers beside him. "My room's upstairs." He nodded his head over to the elevator, then put out his cigarette on the phone.

"Why the fuck would I follow you anywhere?"

The elevator dings, opening its doors as two tweens come out to collect a phone left by the stairwell.

"Curiosity." He shrugged, giving the girls a wave from afar. "Besides, if you don't, you just came here to watch me DJ. In which case, I'm flattered, Officer Graves."

Alec walks towards the elevator, looking over his shoulder at you. You're not used to this. Everyone is shaken up in the presence of a police officer. But not him. Alec Turner had a way of stripping you of your power. Humiliating you. 

"You coming?" 

You pause before letting out a quiet 'yeah' and walking in with him.

He hadn't bothered holding the door for you. He knew wouldn't hesitate for too long.

The kid was always a step ahead.

\---

Neither of you say shit during the elevator ride. You can feel his angry gaze on you. It's as validating as it is arousing. You don't call him Officer Brown Eyes for nothing.

You've got him. 

It's just the two of you now. With just a few flicks of your wrist you could lock the elevator, take out your pocket knife and have it against his jaw. You won't, of course. You enjoy his jaw untarnished. Doesn't make the image less satisfying, though.

The elevator door opens and you give the man another look. As if he could read your mind, he looks paranoid. Perfect.

"After you," you say.

He leaves the elevator, giving you ample opportunity to admire the ass in his dad jeans.

He walks down the hall, presumably waiting for your directions. It amuses you to imagine him walking past the door, still waiting for instruction before realizing he's in an empty hotel hallway like Jack Nicholson. 

Nevertheless, you decide to lead Officer Salt-and-Pepper in the right direction. "To the left," you tell him from behind. "Room 406." 

You hand him the key, letting him believe he's in charge. He slides the key in, notably taking three or four tries before he gets the door open. Adorable.

Walking past his dodgy-eyed inspection of the room, you take off your leather jacket, toss it on the ground, and plop on the office chair by the bed. This puts him in a predicament. Graves either needs to awkwardly lean against something or sit on the bed. Predictably, the man leans against the wall, arms crossed. He gives you a cold glare. You meet it with a warm smile. 

You swing the chair around to the desk, getting a laminated sheet, then swerve back to face him. "Wanna get room service?" You wave the menu, enjoying the woosh it makes. He gives you A Look. You can't help but snicker.

"The fuck do you want, Turner?" He stepped closer, trying his best to look intimidating.

"Hmmm." You look at the sheet, contemplative. "Maybe the chicken finger platter."

He takes another step forward. You can sense his growing hatred for you. It's rather fun.

"Enough," he says, in an attempt at a growl. "Why am I here?"

You smile up at him. "I want to have a little chit-chat."

"Get to it," he says gruffly.

"Why the rush? I'm here all night, and I know no one's waiting for you at home." You reach behind you and grab the Red Bull you had lying around. You take a sip, but the can was all but empty. "We might as well have a little fun, hmm? Chicken fingers, nachos, some drinks, some laughs." Good old Charlie is now a few feet away from you. You tuck the menu into his crossed arms. 

His growing impatience is palpable, thick enough to slice with a knife. Like a cheesecake, but tastier.

You get off the chair, crouching by the mini fridge to raid its offerings. You stand up, cracking open a mini bottle. When you turn around, he's leaning against the table. You step a bit closer, making sure he remembers you're taller.

You hand him the bottle of vodka. "C'mon, take that edge off. No need for it here. Just two dudes chatting." He looks at the bottle, clearly debating it. "You're off the clock," you remind him. You sit back down on the office chair, pulling out a joint and a matchbook.

"You're lucky I haven't arrested you," he says from behind, before walking over to face you. 

"For what?" You answer, amused. You motion to the walls of the room, inviting him to search every corner of the potpourri-scented shithole they put you in. "I've got nothing." His titular brown eyes motion to your hand. "This?" Medicinal." 

He glares at you again, walking backwards to sit on the bed. Another point to Alec. This was fun. 

You watch him for a minute or two. The man sits down, staring at the bottle in his hand. 

"There's no rule saying we need to be sober for this," you say, leaning back in the chair to watch him. "I just spent three hours dealing with kids. I could use a drink." You toss him the menu again, then take out your wallet. "C'mon. 's on me. Get whatever you want." You look at him. "You know I'm good for it," you add teasingly. You resist the urge to throw him a wink.

He stares at you, not charmed at all by your grin. He's squinting, trying to read your mind. "You didn't invite me here just for small talk."

"No, I didn't." You take a puff at your joint. "But you seem like a big believer in foreplay." 

He continues to stare. "What the hell do you want with me, Turner?"

"I told you. A chat."

"We could have talked at any time," he says impatiently. "You didn't need to lure me here-"

"-and yet, you came," you remind him, putting your mouth on the joint again.

He sighed heavily. "Fine. Order your food. Get me some beer." He looks at you with an unspoken 'at least I know you can't poison me.'

\---

Half an hour later, you're sitting on the bed, staring at a tray of entirely too much food and beer for two human beings to consume. What was this kid's game? What kind of kick did he get out of taking up your Saturday night?

You're on your first beer, eyeing him warily. Alec eyes you right back from that leather chair. He always looks like he's in on a secret, ready to use it as leverage at any time. It is unsettling, to say the least.

This perfect host act was bullshit, and you know it. You both do. He turns on the TV, flipping through and stopping on the smooth jazz music channel. You give him a glare.  
"We're here to talk, not listen to Kenny G."

"It's called, ambiance, Charles." Alec smirks like the shit he is and joins you on the bed, thankfully bringing over the gigantic plate of buffalo wings. He looks at you as if you’re a punchline to a joke you’ll never hear. "So tense."

"You would be, too, if you had to chase lowlifes all day instead of being one."

The boy looks unimpressed by this quip. "You don't need a comeback for everything, man. No one's keeping score."

Thank God for that, because he was miles ahead. In the past hour, he lured you to a hotel, made you search a crowded room for him, convinced you to join him in his room, and now the two of you were sharing a bed full of food like chums. 

"I can leave at any time," you say, half a threat to him, half a reminder to yourself.

"But then you'll never know why I asked you here," he responds coolly. Alec takes a swig of his beer, then laughs. "Seriously, dude. Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you..." He moves a few paces back on the bed, shockingly reaching out to rub your shoulders. "...even if you did arrest my friend."

"Friend, huh?" You laugh coldly at his omission before swatting his hands away. The massage felt good, but you still have some dignity.

Alec laughs from behind you. "Sometimes friends fuck." It was a valid enough point, but your hatred for the boy won't allow you to say so. After a pause, he continues to rub your shoulders, to your dismay and pleasure. "Haven't you ever had someone who just-"

"No."

"There's no shame in it, man- fuck, you really are tense- just some fun."

You were always a label guy. Sure, it terrified you to elevate Theresa from girlfriend to fiancee- so much so it took you eight years after meeting her to get married- but you never had a friend with benefits. 

You grab the remote and turn off the jazz music, now acutely aware of the ringing in your ears.

Alec stops his massage to reach over, grabbing a chicken wing and sitting against the pillows. You want to ask him what the fuck he wants, but it would be the hundredth time already.

Silently, you begin your second beer.

"Wanna watch something?" He asks from behind you. You hear two clunks as he kicks off his boots.

"No," you reply bluntly, not bothering to look at him. You stare at the wall, gnawing at a hot wing. 

Why the fuck don't you leave? Every minute you're here, you're giving him more power over you. 

But that's the thing. He had a power over you. Just as he alluded to earlier, he made you curious. You're a dumb fucking horse and he's dangling a carrot in front of you. 

Then there was the fact this kid is unhinged. It doesn't matter how many chicken dishes he buys, or how many casual topics he brings up. None of that changes the fact you're alone with a criminal. There was nothing outwardly tense about the situation. You've been trapped in a room with vicious criminals. Guys who would never crack open a beer and listen to jazz with you. Somehow, this felt the same. Like you were being captive.

What kind of bind did you manage to get yourself in? You're sitting on a hotel bed, unarmed, with a drug dealer nearly half your age. 

"It can't be comfortable sitting up like that," Alec said.

"I'm not here for comfort. I'm here to talk."

"Who knew those were mutually exclusive?" Alec laughed into his beer.

You look at him. His literal shoes are both on the floor, but metaphorically you're still waiting for the other to drop. When does he turn the switch? When is he going to start pacing and delivering his monologue? 

"What were to happen if I were to just get up and leave?" Perhaps by asking this you will reveal his true motives. You look at him, waiting for him to peel off the layers of contrived persona, but he merely shrugs.

"That's cool," he said casually. 

"Do you really expect me to believe," you ask, barely containing your impatience, "that you want to spend time with me?"

His face morphs into an expression of sympathy. "Charlie boy... that's the saddest question I've ever heard." He scoots over, continuing the massage. You grunt.

You didn't mean it that way. You didn't mean to sound vulnerable. It was a line of questioning. You meant to sound inquisitive, not... fuck. He's good. His hands are skilled. Skilled at spinning disks, skilled at massaging your back, skilled at dealing drugs, and skilled at essentially flipping you off.

He's stripped you of even your most basic skills as a cop. Even your most reasonable questions end up empowering him. How pathetic you are. You look over at a mirror in the corner and vaguely see the two of you. There is a figure in a hoodie rubbing your sorry, sagging shoulders. If you couldn't see your ear, you wouldn't believe it was your reflection. This was all so unlike you. You're in danger, and not the type you've grown accustomed to. This danger was quiet. It bubbled under the surface.

You're so lost in thought, so far out of your depths, you don't dare say or do anything. He continues to rub your long-neglected back. You continue to stand as stiffly as possible, resisting the urge to slump against the touch. 

It wasn't just Alec's hands that were skilled. His true strength was buried underneath that curly blonde mop. The kid was crazy, but he was crazy like a fox. 

You let him continue. Fuck, who are you kidding? You didn't let him do shit. You're nearly powerless, sitting on a creaky hotel bed and smelling some delinquent's smoke-tinged shampoo.

When the hell did it come to this?

He leans up against you, hand darting for your lap. You jump.

"Relax, Gravesy," he whispers in your ear, condescending. He's halfway to straddling your lap. You jump before you realize what he's reaching for. Alec retrieves a chicken wing from the plate on your lap and takes a bite, still uncomfortably close to your face. "Isn't that burning your thighs?"

You look down at the plate. It was, in fact, piping hot- something that went unnoticed until he mentioned it.

 


	2. Chapter 2

You're not sure he knows it, but he's having a good time. Officer Brow Game, sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully avoided your gaze. You're inches away from him. Close enough to see his enviable pores. Close enough to cause a lot of damage- if you wanted to, that is.

But you don't.

This was quite the picture. You're rubbing his back as he tries to hide his comfort- pleasure even. If Norman Rockwell had a sick sense of humor, he would have painted this. It isn't often this happens in nature. He may not be happy, but the man is calm. You've tamed an animal hellbent on making you his dinner.

Man, is he gonna be angry when he sees the buffalo sauce thumbprints on the back of his shirt.

You're no mind reader, but you can tell he's trying to find some words. Likely an excuse. He wants to leave- or, at the very least, he thinks he _should_ leave. He's got nothing, unless he pulls out his phone and fakes an emergency. It's a shame, too. It would be pretty hilarious if he started listing reasons to leave, like a modern Baby It's Cold Outside or something.

He's exhausted all his options. He threatened you, and you called his bluff. Every single time. You've left him with two choices- leave and regret it, or stay and... well, he'll likely regret either option. That's just who this guy is.

You retrieve your joint from the nightstand and press it up against his lips. He shakes his head, glaring into the distance. Still, he stubbornly refused to look in your direction.

"I don't have laser eyes," you laugh, taking another hit of the joint.

"What the fuck does that mean?" He grumbled.

You reach out, putting both hands on his face. Not unpleasant, but a bit scratchy. You took him for an obsessive shaver. He jumps as your palms cup either side of his face, but he knows better than to lash out. You turn his head, forcing his brown eyes onto your own. "Look at me," you say gently. "I'm not that scary, am I?"

\---

You want to say no. You want to tell him he doesn't hold a candle to the hardened criminals you've seen over decades- the boy's entire lifespan, likely- in law enforcement.

That would be a lie.

Somehow, this kid knows how to shake you to your very core. His false serenity, mixed with the devil-may-care attitude... the confidence he exudes. Fuck, it was horrifying.

He takes another puff. You realize, just then, that he stopped touching you. Why does he need you to watch him? What kind of voyeuristic kink did this kid have?

_Just leave._

This is easily the hundredth time you had the though, but your legs fail you. You're a hostage here. A hostage who's free to go.

A million insults come to mind, but he's heard them all. You're sure of it. In fact, you're positive there is nothing you can that would shake his demeanor.

_Wait._

You remember the missing puzzle piece to this kid- the very thing that brought you here. The neighbor boy. His boyfriend- or whatever.

You pause, wondering why the fuck you want to rattle the cage in the first place. When in a den with a cobra, you don't dangle a mouse in front of its fangs.

Somehow, you convinced this kid to have mercy on your soul. No knives, no guns, no fists... just cockiness and a lot of chicken wings. Why the fuck is your instinct to fan the flames?

_Because you're a shitty cop- one who is way out of his depths._

Now you're conflicted on top of the already numerous layers of conflict you're grappling with. Do you bring him up or no? Do you risk getting this guy angry? You decide on a middle ground.

"How long have you two been-"

"-friends?" Alec asked, voice insistent on the word.

"I was going to ask how long you've been in cahoots." You say dryly. 

"Cahoots?" Alec laughs and shakes his head, drinking some of his beer. "Man, you're something, you know that?" He chuckles into the nearly empty bottle. He's mocking you. You want to grab this kid by the hoodie and threaten to arrest him for the rest of his worthless life. You want to demand answers. You want to interrogate him. And yet, the only thing that comes out of your goddamn mouth is, "what's so fucking funny?"He laughs again, wiping his mouth of beer. "You. You're like... a character or something. I figured they stopped making people like you after the 1950s."

"People like m-"

"-you're old-fashioned, Charles. You're like the dad in Leave it to Beaver or something. Repressed. Stiff. G-rated."

"You have no idea who I am, kid," you reply.

"I do, man. You're the kinda guy who thinks it's rude to demand a blowjob before you take 'em to dinner." You say nothing. "I mean look at you, man. Your shoulders are up to your chin. You haven't taken off your shoes. I'm surprised you haven't tucked a napkin into your shirt." He paused, examining your expression before laughing at it. "Don't get me wrong, dude. It's adorable, but-"

"What did you just say?" You sit up further, glaring at his dumb blonde head. He isn't intimidated, casually taking puffs and sips.

"It's cute. The whole 'I deny myself' act. I dig it," he shrugged. "I'm guessing you spent a lot of time in church when you were young."

_Ouch._

When you were young.

That harsh reminder aside, he was annoyingly accurate. You don't grow up a New York Italian without some Catholic guilt. Hell, nearly every Sunday your family trekked to Paramus for pasta and prayers with your extended family.

"What's your point?"

"My point," Alec said, as if it were obvious, "is that you need to learn to relax."

In your mind, you see this boy sprawled out on a prison bed, 'relaxing' in an orange jumpsuit.

"I'm good, thanks." You say, looking at the plate and mentally debating another wing.

Sensing he's getting nowhere with you, he sat back down against the pillows. Peace at last. You stare at the black TV screen, watching his reflection behind yours, for minutes.

"So why are you so gay for the law, anyway?" He asks, breaking the pleasant silence.

"Because it's what's right," you answer automatically.

"Then why's it different from state to state?"

 _God,_  are you unequipped to battle this kid. You're so far out of your league. It would be one thing if he were just a dopey frat boy who sold pills out of his apartment. This... this was a different beast entirely.

This guy was melting your brain with his astute observations, cogent points and expert massages. You're no match for him.

You want to scream in his face, pleading for him to get to it. Whatever proposition, blackmail, bribe... whatever danger he wanted to put you in. The anticipation was pain in and of itself.

It occurs to you that you haven't had a social interaction like this in years. The two of you were enemies, sure, but at the very core you were... hanging out. Like a pair of goddamn friends.. if one friend were terrified of the other.

  
You stare at the blank TV screen so intensely you feel your retinas burning. His reflection, a tiny little blip behind your partial form, seems to be looking at the same thing. Even from this vantage point, his gaze is intimidating. You're on the verge of a cold sweat. You can still feel his fingertips on the side of your face.

He's nibbling at his chicken fingers now. Why he needed multiple types of chicken is beyond you. The munchies, probably. For some unknown reason, you turn your head around and look at him. He meets your eye contact as he licks honey mustard off his finger. You immediately look away.

"What's your favorite condiment, Charlie boy?"

You glare at him through the TV screen. He waits for you to reply. For some unknown reason, you open your mouth and inform him it's barbecue sauce.

He smiles and opens a cup of barbecue sauce, dipping a chicken finger in it. He scoots over to the side of the bed and hovers it over your lips as an offer. Without thinking, you open your mouth for him.

"Enjoy," he says in a hushed tone, smirking like the shit he is. You snatch the chicken finger from his hands, eating as you quietly stew in the absurdity of the situation. "Damn," he pouts, "I liked feeding you."

"Yeah? You get off on it?" You reply snidely.

He laughed. "Nah. That's pretty vanilla for me- no pun intended." You have no idea what pun he's making. He grabs two beers, handing you one. Fuck, this kid was truly in no rush.

"What's your game plan here?"

He laughs. "Planning isn't very punk rock," he replies, but you sense an insincerity in his his tone. There is a glint in his eye that tells you to stop asking questions.

"Shouldn't you be headed to bed?"

He laughs. "Is that an invitation?" You glare at your shoes, gnawing at the rest of the chicken finger. "Save room for dessert," he snickered.

"Don't you have a long morning of dealing drugs ahead of you?" You glare.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, officer," Alec said with faux innocence, batting his eyelashes at you. He grinned slyly, crawling onto the mattress and leaning over you.

Were you even half the man you claim to be, you'd shove him off the bed while his ass was in the air. But, again, why disturb the peace? Especially when the peace came with an ultimatum. He wanted something from you. Before you can think about it further, he pulls two pints of ice cream from a bowl of ice on the cart.

"Chocolate or vanilla?"

"Vanilla."

"Of course," he winked at your response.

Holy fuck. The little shit made a pun in advance. Are you _that_ predictable?

Maybe you aren't. Maybe the kid's just that good.

Neither thought is comforting.

Fuck, this beer is starting to get to you.

Yet, you continue to drink it.

Alec sits much too close to you, shedding another layer as his hoodie falls to the floor. You give him a look, to which he replies it's hot in the room. You're glad it isn't just you who noticed.

"C'mon," he coos gently, still with a hint of mischief to his smile. "Sit on the bed. I've felt how stiff your back is. Take a load off." Alec inches backwards, lying against the pillows. You pause, looking at him. He smiles. "Could you get us spoons?"

You feel a knot in your stomach as you leave the bed to get the spoons from the cart. From behind you, he tells you to bring over the chocolate syrup and whipped cream too. Fuck, you're getting dizzier and sweatier by the second. Was the AC broken? Are you just that drunk?

Whether wisely or foolishly, you obey every one of this kid's words, walking to the back of the bed and handing him everything he requested. Alec, smiling like a child who's manipulated his babysitter, pats the mattress at his side.

You don't move.

As if it offering a compromise, Alec scoots over, giving you space next to him. The knot in your stomach gets tighter as you take him up on this offer, leaning against the headboard, thankful for the back support.

The second your sorry ass hits the mattress, something in the room shifts. All hierarchy is out the door. You've made yourself his equal.

If someone from the force were to walk in right now, they'd assume you two... god knows what they'd assume. But no one's coming. For better or for worse, you have absolute privacy. Assuming he isn't filming this entire pathetic encounter, whatever happens between the two of you would be erased from history completely- provided he doesn't leave you with a stab wound.

He looks over at you, pouring copious amounts of chocolate syrup on his ice cream. He's not overly concerned with tidiness. His first spoonful drips on his tee shirt. You stare at him as he sucks some syrup off his thumb. He looks right back at you. It takes you a good minute to remember you have a pint of ice cream in your hand.

You ignore the tension in your stomach- from nerves _and_ from chicken- and dig in. Fuck, you wish you didn't turn that TV off. You have no options, other than to stare into space or look directly at him. You choose the former.

"I never took you for a messy eater."

You jump as you hear his voice, looking down at a considerably eaten pint of ice cream you apparently ate in a trancelike state. Only a true moron would go on autopilot with this kid at nearby. You, apparently, are that moron.

Before you can reply, you're met with a pair of all-too-close brown eyes. Alec gives you a wicked, crooked grin as he puts his fingers on your face once again, gingerly wiping the corner of your mouth. You look back at him. His gaze is uncharacteristically gentle, but not without amusement.

Once again, he is practically straddling your lap, forcing you to further back against the pillows. Slowly, he smiles, eyes lighting up as he removes his thumb, silently offering it to you. Before you can answer, his thumb is against your lips.

"Go on," said Alec, a gentle mischief in his tone. He moves his leg over, now sandwiching your knee between his thighs. You're frozen. "Go _on_ ," he repeats, a notable impatience in his voice now.

You have no choice, do you?

You open your mouth. He moves the pad of his thumb against your lips, causing that knot in your stomach to somehow tangle up into a second, larger knot. Before you fully grasp the situation, his thumb is inside your mouth. Your eyes meet him, looking for answers. What the fuck did he want?

Fuck, you  _know_ what he wants.

His brows are practically at the top of his forehead, waiting in anticipation. Trying very hard not to wonder where those hands have been, you give his finger a series of licks. He doesn't budge. You're confident all the ice cream is gone now, but he stays put. You see conflict in his eyes before he lets out a sigh, pulling out of your mouth.

"Was that so bad?" He asked. "Is the big, bad police officer afraid of a finger?"

You have no real answer to that, but he doesn't allow you one. First the thumb, now the spoon. It's up against your lips, a large scoop of melting vanilla ice cream nearly hitting your nose. He feeds it to you, watching every micro-expression you make with absolute glee.

He smiles again, and it's the kind of smile you fear the most.

He inches closer.

Closer.

First the finger, then the spoon, now his lips. Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull as you register the situation. Alec's hand is on your face, forcing you still as he savagely kisses you. His teeth nibble at your lips, his tongue claims your entire mouth. This is the most passionate kiss you've experienced since before you were married- so passionate, you forget yourself momentarily and instinctively lift a hand into his hair.

This lack of sanity lasts a few more seconds before you remember what the fuck is happening and lower that hand. He snickers against your lips. You try to sit up, but you fail. Your stomach is one big knot now. Like that Rat King thing you saw on Wikipedia one time.

Fuck, he's still kissing you. You're still _being kissed._ Alec Turner's lips are on yours. There is no way to phrase it without it sounding completely fucking batshit.

Your tongues are entwined. Momentary lapse aside, you haven't done a thing to aid him, but he is far from discouraged. He is, however, winding down. His mouth is gentler now, the licks and nibbles slower. More sensual.

Fuck, you might just vomit.

He pulls away abruptly, and you hear yourself emit a whine.

"Do you want me to keep going?" He near-whispers, gently stroking your face.

Your brain screams 'no,' but something your body prevents you from saying it. You feel a void now. Part of you misses the adrenaline rush. He smiles sadistically, apparently watching the conflict on your face. Mercifully or mercilessly, he stops waiting for your response. Slowly, he leans in, eyes meeting yours. You watch for a moment, then- for some unknown reason- meet him halfway, allowing him to engulf you in another kiss.

  
You've always hated the taste of chocolate.

 


	3. Chapter 3

He just lies there, stiff against the mattress, as you tongue his mouth.

The man won't move. Not a damn inch. This is like a twisted, gay remake of Weekend at Bernie's.

You pull away. As his eyes widen, he lets out a pathetic whine like the puppy dog he is. 

Now he's looking at you- half begging you to continue, half begging you not to notice.

"Hey, Gravesy? If I wanted to make out with a mannequin, I'd go to Nordstrom's," you tell him pointedly. It's a risk, forcing him to feel accountable of the homo urges he so clearly fears- but you're banking on him fearing you even more. "Either participate or close your mouth."

You can't help but smirk, watching the hamster wheels turn in his salt and pepper skull. Maybe he's less transparent than the average cop. Maybe you're more observant than the average person. Maybe it's both. Either way, it is a fucking delight.

"Alec-" he manages, his voice heavy with struggle.

Amazing.

The man wants you to force him. The wonders never cease.

He needs you to play the evil drug dealer he's cast you as. By this time tomorrow, he'll probably have you pegged as some sort of demon hellbent on tempting straight men of the law.

Still, it's a fun narrative to lean into. So you do... or you will, at least. You're not going to make anything simple for this guy.

"Guess you want to stop," you say mournfully, hand groping him through his shirt. The look of panicked arousal in his eyes is truly something else. You'd frame it if you could. 

He peers up at you with another gem of a look. One that says 'I want this, but I would never admit it.' You decide to give him another taste of what's at stake. 

\---

Whether you want it or not, Alec leans in and kisses you again, his tongue massaging against yours.

_Fuck._

You can't. You shouldn't. You don't want this.

You lift one of your clammy palms and push him off your lap. "I..."

Alec studies you, still too close for comfort. "What's wrong, peaches?" He whispers, kissing down your neck.

_Fuck._

His hand rubs your chest again, thumb once again against your lips.

You croak out something completely incomprehensible, even to yourself. He responds with a soft shush.

"Do you want my lips here again?" Alec whispers, brushing his fingertips against your mouth. You grunt, every part of your body seemingly paralyzed.

Despite all your logic, you can't help but wonder if the answer is yes.

\---

You lean in, teasingly brushing your lips together. The man wants you. You're going to make him admit it. One way or another.

He makes a few small noises, his body relaxing against the mattress again. It's quite a sight. He looks positively post-coital. Those long, lush eyelashes flutter through his pathetic half-lidded eyes.

Oh, Officer Brown Eyes. The very picture of repression.

He pushes you off his lap, but you're not easily deterred. You get right back on that handsome, uptight stallion. You begin to writhe against his thigh, wedging his knee between your legs. He grunts in a protesting tone. His face, however, tells a very different story. He looks like the cat who just spotted the canary.

You continue to rut against him, sure to make loud noises of arousal. 

"Ever touch a cock before?" You whisper against his hear.

"Wh- no."

"Not even your own?" You give him a sly smile. It wouldn’t surprise you. This poor little man. All badge, no bravery.

"Shut the fuck up," he grumbles. You silence him with a kiss. He does nothing.

"Do you want to?" You whisper, practically batting your lashes at him. He looks up at you, dumbstruck. Before he can answer, you take the opportunity to grab his hand, sliding it to the front of your jeans. You aren’t entirely hard yet, but he can definitely feel something. They don't call ‘em skinny jeans for nothing. 

You eye him carefully, taking note of all the various shades of denial painted on his face. As you grind against his palm, his eyes shut completely. 

You unzip.

The back of his hand, though stationary, touches your cock through the thin fabric of your boxers. Once again, you're sure to make loud declarations of approval.

Then it happens.

To your delight, those paralyzed fingers begin to move. He starts to brush his fingertips along your ever-growing bulge. His eyes are still closed, but he slowly parts his lips. He’s not touching to please. He’s touching your cock as though it were evidence at a crime scene. It’s all clinical and curious. There is no passion to it. Still, it’s something- _fuck_ , is it something.

Just as quickly as it started, it stops. The hand drops to his side. Were the two of you playing a slightly different game, you’d force his hand down your boxers until you were satisfied. No, that isn’t your modus operandi. Not tonight.

Charles Graves would take any opportunity to label you a rapist, conveniently re-writing this little tryst to suit him. It’s not that you’re afraid of legal repercussions- the dude would never willingly tell his coworkers he shared a bed with you- it’s more an issue of agenda. You didn’t _just_ want to rock his world. You wanted to rock his very sense of self. By straddling the line between Bad Boy and bad guy, you can force him to come to terms with every aspect of himself he’s afraid of. 

That’s where calculation comes in. It’s all about balance. He’s never going to give you the green light, but you’re more than happy to speed though a yellow. 

You continue to rub your crotch against his thigh, partially removing your jeans. His eyelids shut tighter as you roughly rub his hip. You lean against him, panting as you gyrate. After a quick kiss, you watch his eyelids shut even tighter than before. With absolute delight, you realize why.

“You’re hard.”


	4. Chapter 4

His eyes are lit up like the kid just invented erections. 

_Don’t get smug,_ you think to yourself, _it’s only friction._

He presses his mouth against your neck, leaving your mouth free to say anything you want to him. But you don’t.

You don’t protest. You don’t insult him. You don’t even tell him to stop.

None of that would take away the undeniable fact Alec Turner gave you an erection. 

Alec is sucking now, seemingly hellbent on giving you a hickey. Before you could tell him to stop, he does it on his own, sitting up to kick his pants off. He’s harder now, you notice, then mentally kick yourself for looking in the first place.

As his pants drop to the floor, there is a sound that reveals he had something heavy in his pockets. The boy didn’t come unprepared.

_Of course he didn’t. Unlike you, he can properly do this goddamn job._

Alec looks at you again, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m getting bored,” he says. “Do you want to watch me entertain myself?”

Something comes out of your mouth, but it sure as hell isn’t English. He doesn’t wait for you to say something coherent before whipping out his cock. He was… sizable. Of course he was.

You watch for a few minutes, nearly hypnotized, as he flexes his biceps in movement. You don’t dare watch below his torso.

He’s far too comfortable. Alec’s eyes were nearly feral as they stares you down. They haven’t stopped looking at you. Like a predator circling in on his prey.

You need to do something.

“My legs are getting numb,” you say, kicking him to your side. 

He takes advantage of his new position to press his cock against you, sucking your neck. 

_Shit._

\---

You watch his lips part again- his repressed version of a moan- and smile. Truth be told, you were far from bored. Whether he liked it or not, Police Officer Ken Doll puts on a good show. 

He wants so badly _not_ to want this. It is a fucking delight.

But he’s comfortable again, and comfortable is a snoozefest. You decide to test him once again.

You lean in, giving him a long kiss as you rub his inner thighs. “They still numb?” You ask sweetly.

“Wh… yeah. Yeah, a little.”

“You need to get your blood back to your feet,” you say with zero authority- but hey, it works. Gets you both where you want. 

After a few taunting rubs of his cock, you re-position him so he sits at the side of the bed. “You’ll feel better soon,” you whisper in his ear, giving the lobe a few licks. “Scout’s honor.”

You hop off the bed, positioning yourself between his knees. If eyeballs could bulge out of their heads you’d need to pick his up from the floor. Not even Charles Graves is clueless enough to misinterpret this situation. He knows exactly what is happening. Whether he knows he wants it, well… that’s a different story altogether. 

You lick your lips up at him. He twitches. This is a fucking delight.

\---

He’s actually going to do it.

There is a feeling in your stomach, one other than dread. Something you hate yourself for feeling.

You can’t give him this much power. You just can’t. You either need to stop this entirely, or pretend you want this so he can’t get off on the manipulation of it all.

After a few moments of motivation, you reach down to touch that mop of blonde curls. Alec smirks up at you, his intense gaze boring into your merciless soul. You feel yourself lose track of your breath as you stare right back, brows furrowed. 

\---

You place your palm on his knee, slowly letting it rise. To your absolute gratification, the man jumps as if you gave him an electric jolt. 

“It’s okay,” you say up at him. “It’s all good. Just relax.” You whisper the last part. His fingers tighten their grip around your hair. 

Slowly, the hand rises, not stopping until your palm is rubbing the bulge beneath his dad jeans. He parts his lips again, this time emitting a long, low groan. 

_Phenomenal._

His grasp is tighter on you now. If he’s trying to intimidate you, it sure as shit ain’t working. This man could pull your hair any time, provided he never loses the self-loathing, repressed homo shtick. 

Just for the fun of it, you rise from your position, pushing yourself on his lap. He doesn’t have time to protest, as your tongue is halfway down his throat before his dumb cop brain can even register it. You grind again, making a big show of moaning. You slide your hand downwards. Little by little, you work. You get his pants unbuttoned, then unzipped. Then you remove his belt, all the while amusing yourself with images of red backs and desperate pleas.

There will be no bondage tonight, sadly. It would be too easy for you, and too convenient for him. But it sure makes a good image. Especially if you rewrite it so he’s wearing a cop uniform you tore buttons from. 

Mmmm. Nice. That’s the stuff.

You store that fictional scenario in your spank bank for later. Right now, you have a real live Charles Graves underneath you- and he looks horrified. His face is red from about ten different things, the wheeze-like pants coming out of his mouth among them. 

You grab hold of his jeans and slide down, taking them along with you. His panting gets louder. Harder for him to deny.

He’s wearing tighty whities. Of course he is. 

You reach up and stroke him through those comical briefs. His breathing is so heavy now it’s approaching Darth Vader territory.

You spread his legs wider, hovering your mouth over the bulge. He’s fully hard now, but you continue to paw at him. He looks like he may cry. You wish he would.

Off go the man-panties.

“Impressive,” you remark, staring at his gorgeous dick. You’re not sure what, exactly, you were expecting- but this wasn’t it. He’s got nothing to be ashamed about down there. “You have a great cock,” you assure him. “Now let’s see how it tastes.”

You watch him like a hawk, slowly leaning in to touch your tongue to his erection. The very millisecond you make contact, the man jumps about ten feet in the air.

“I-I…” he croaks, looking like one of your more desperate crack addicts, “Listen,” he says, his voice and posture trying very hard to appear composed. “I don’t… I’m not…” Growing bored, you take his tip into your mouth, watching him stutter like a buffoon.

“Spit it out,” you say in between licks.

\---

“I’m not gay.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” he says, smirking up at you. Once he’s got your full attention, the fucking _brat_ presses his tongue on the side of your cock, giving it a long lick. He’s cool as a cucumber, the smuggest you’ve ever seen him. His eyes are sharper than ever. He speeds up now.

You’re helpless. 

You’re hopeless. 

He’s staring like he has X-ray vision while his hot, wet tongue laps at you like a dripping creamsicle.

You’ve heard horror stories before, about impressionable young things lured by predatory cops into compromising positions out of fear. Never once did you consider you may be in a mirror image of that scenario.

At least three-fourths of your body wants to vomit. The other fourth reminds you exactly how long it’s been since you let anybody touch you this way. 

Not that you’re letting him.

You can’t deny the boy is good at it. Too good at it. This isn’t real. He doesn’t care about you or your pecker or even the law. He’s just a cockslut getting off on your forced compliance.

That’s what it is, after all. You’d never do this if it weren’t for the coercion. 

Fuck, this kid could suck a bowling ball out of a vacuum.

Wait, no, you mixed up metaphors there. Or whatever type of speech that is. He could suck a bowling ball out of a drinking straw. Yeah, that’s it. 

Fuck, get out of your goddamn head and enjoy this. You’ll deal with it later. Much later.

Brown eyes, so dark they’re nearly black, stare up at you as his tongue maps out every sorry crevice. Seeing those eyes next to your long-neglected cock gives you a twinge of something. You’re dizzy. Tense. Nauseous. 

When did it get so hot in here?

You grasp at his curls again, entertaining an image of tearing his mouth away then walking out.

_He still didn’t tell you why he invited you here._

That’s right. Fuck.

Wait. No. Who cares? Certainly not you. It’s not important. You can kick the kid in his face. Walk out with some shred of dignity.

Shit. It’s been so long. 

So long you may be enjoying this. 

So long you may, to your horror, finish all-too-quickly.

That would be the last nail in the coffin, wouldn’t it? Alec Turner not only making you cum, but making you cum _prematurely._

He would never let you live it down. Neither would you.

Your face is on fire. Your stomach is doing more gymnastics than your logic. This is… far from ideal. He’s going to make you puke- twice. First your mouth, then your cock. Or maybe the other way around. 

The pleasure is all-encompassing, but so are the other things. Your stress. Your anxiety. Your repulsion. 

Your confusion.

Tears are welling up. Shit, you’re going to cry, cum _and_ puke.  
\---

You know this dude isn’t gonna return the favor. One, he’s closeted. Two, he’s a cop. Three, he’s just that kind of asshole in general.

As your mouth does its work, you wonder what exactly his wife went through. The poor lady probably died without her husband ever going down on her.

The point is he isn’t getting on his knees for you- willingly, at least- so you slide your hand down to do the work of two men. And they say millennials have no work ethic.

\---

 _He’s beautiful_ , you think before wondering what the fuck you were doing thinking that.

It’s just been too long. You’re too far out of your league. Your mind is playing tricks on you.

Maybe that Stockholm Syndrome thing isn’t actually bullshit. Maybe you’re getting it right now.

Hopefully, that’s the only disease you contract from this scumbag.

Your eyes sting from tears you don’t quite understand. Your hands and legs are shaking. This kid must think- well, he must _know_ \- it’s been forever. Not since Theresa… great. Now you’re thinking about your dead wife while a sleazy criminal boy goes down on you. Perfect. 

“Relax,” he says again. This time it’s less gentle. More of a command.

You lie against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. You’ve never felt your heart race this way.

Alec Turner just might be the death of you.


End file.
